Cuming Mutha woke up slowly and painfully, sensing from the ache in his liver that it was a Tuesday. Around him were piles and piles of hashers and harriettes, snoring in the morning light, all wearing XXXXL hash shirts…. And only that.

He sat bolt upright, hearing a sound that, to his ears, was in between a cat being skinned and a car’s windshield getting a good boffing. He crawled over Perfect Woman holding a binder packed full of porno mags, navigated around Crabs and Resting Slut Face locked in a tight embrace, and pulled aside Hand Pump’s slumbering figure to find Twerxes curled in a ball.

“Don’t worry.”

Cuming Mutha jumped and twirled like a ballerina to see Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring standing behind him.

“It started as an imitation—some sort of anime she was watching—but now she just sleeps like that. But don’t wake her up yet, she gets really X-rated if you startle her.”

Thirty minutes later, after a couple of Bloody Marys, the troops had mostly been assembled. Gloryhole, despite grumbling that he had to get to work, did not take Brown Eye up on his offer of mutually beneficial employment. On All Fours had made the group peanut butter sandwiches, which Just Oliver was gobbling with such appreciation that he started humping the table leg in a state of bliss. Trying to prevent too much wood on wood action, John Handcock got between them. Tricrapylete just shook his head and looked away, knowing even he had not been in such a trifecta of a disaster in a very long time.

“Here’s what we know,” Cuming Mutha stood at the front of the crowd. “We were both in Golden Gate Park.”

There was a pause.

“So you don’t even know where you last saw him?” Sodomentary Cock asked.

Blows Through Bush pulled out his tourist’s map and peered intently. “No, just the northern one, it’d be too much to cover both.” He flipped the map around and pulled out a compass. “I don’t see why I have to be involved, I don’t even know this asshole.”

“This brave man,” Do Her Well stepped up. “He has given his time, his energy, his creativity to provide to you a night of adventure. And this is how you repay him?” She slapped Silence of the Trans on the back of the skull. “You ingrates, you slobs, you box of deplorables.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you cared about Douchicorn so much!” My Little Porno whispered to her.

“Douchicorn? I thought we had lost Hand Pump.” She stepped down from Just Doesn’t Get It’s shoulders. “Fuck that guy.”

Perfect Woman whispered something in her ear. “What do you mean it’s my job?” she could be heard whispering back. “But no one is paying me.” A pause. “Well I don’t care if you do blackmail me, those pictures were very flattering… no, you can’t deport a parrot. Just because she’s on my tax return…”

“Fine.” Do Her Well stood back up and slapped Silence of the Trans again, just for the hell of it. “We must find Douchicorn. Any ideas?”

“Well, we could check his Strava…” Chicken Bone Her began.

“Let’s rerun the trail!” Eat My Pussy raced off, Fucker and Gobble My Ass quickly off behind him. The rest of the pack, not knowing what else to do, followed.

“But do we really have to take ten minutes to solve each check… again?” Udder Moron implored. “We know where it’s going, in the most unreasonable direction possible.”

“Douchicorn could have fallen in a well… or been eaten by a raccoon.” Buck Fucka shuddered. “You don’t even want to imagine the kinds of creatures that lurk in the parks at night.”

“Like what?” Pole Her Bare asked.

“Women!” Brown Eye pulled Buck Fucka away and into the darkness that had fallen once more. It had been over eight hours that they had been following trail, or attempting to, and they were no closer to finding Douchicorn than they were the day before. I’m Drunk had long since given up and gone to the bar, taking Just Carson and his Hawaiian shirt with him.

“I have an idea,” Weekend at Abba’s suggested. “Why don’t we check his Strava?”

“Great idea!” Blowqueen said enthusiastically, pulling out a laptop and typing furiously. “If we analyze Douchicorn’s past running style and speed, we should be able to determine the maximal radius of a projected route, also incorporating his… shall we say… hipster tendencies, and therefore adding into this model any nearby coffee shops, picobreweries, barbers, and other locally sourced artisanal goods…”

“He just uploaded a run. It ends five hundred yards from here.” Skid Mark pointed out.

“Oh, ok.” Blowqueen stuffed his laptop back into his pocket and they took off to find Douchicorn surrounded by a pack of… runners.

“How could you?” asked Dick Simmons.

“Yeah,” said Just Ben. “We were looking all night for you.” Just Ben nodded in agreement.

“I drank my entire jug of water,” Just Liz scowled. “I had to refill it from a creek.”

“I think that was raw sewage,” Udder Moron advised her.

Douchicorn shrugged. “They said hi to me?”

“You know, this reminds me of two other people who found each other,” Sister Fister threw her arms around Roman Showers and Backside Banger. “I think sometimes in life, you have to get where you are going only by going where you’ve been. And it’s just simple words that bring us all together. And there are two people here who we have to appreciate that have been brought together by their togetherness, and have decided to create a life together. And that’s beautiful.”

Cockulous Oculus sniffed.

“Touching, isn’t it?” Zippercised handed her a handkerchief.

“No, TB outbreak from the lab next door.” She handed it back. “Have a good night!”